


Hydrofluoric

by aluinihi



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Ed is 18/19, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mustang's Team, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aluinihi/pseuds/aluinihi
Summary: They say things always come in threes, thirds, trinities, thrice, and now Roy comes in three decades. A three and a zero — that must be quite unbalanced, and he has no idea how can someone expect “three” and “zero” to mean “established”. How couldRoybe, when he is a half? Halfhearted, halfway, halfsoul— where is hisrest?He is thirty. And if you are past twenty without ever hearing from your soulmate, you’re as good as a zero point five running around the world. When Roy looks in the mirror, he’s pretty sure he is a zero point three.Soulmate AU: terms of endearment and compliments your soulmate says about you appears on the back of your hand.





	Hydrofluoric

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It has been a while! My "post every week" 2k19 goal is not going to happen apparently, because oh god college... I was relatively excited for it, but as someone with depression and agoraphobia, it feels like I'm just hitting my head against a wall.
> 
> A huge thank you for vampiricalthorns, for putting up with me like they always do and convincing me to keep this work going with their insights and amazing commentaries!
> 
> English is not my native language, so please warn me of mistakes! I messed their ages a bit because I can, Roy is 30 and Ed is around 18-19 here.

Roy opens his eye to a room that should be his. Nothing ever feels like him, and neither do these four white walls — the warmest covers wouldn’t be able to shake the cold off, the strongest fire wouldn’t be able to brighten the lackluster environment away. Inside of that wardrobe are only masks, those blue and gold costumes he puts on every morning alongside with his eyepatch, to hide _something_ , whatever it is. When he stares out of the window, the dark sky seems more comfortable than his own bed.

The clock on the bedside table says 2 a.m., and he sighs. He is officially thirty now. They say things always come in threes, thirds, trinities, thrice, and now Roy comes in three decades. A three and a zero — that must be quite unbalanced, and he has no idea how can someone expect “three” and “zero” to mean “established”. How could _Roy_ be, when he is a half? Halfhearted, halfway, half _soul_ — where is his _rest?_

He is thirty. And if you are past twenty without ever hearing from your soulmate, you’re as good as a zero point five running around the world. When Roy looks in the mirror, he’s pretty sure he is a zero point three.

The eyepatch is in the drawer, and if he wants to get out of bed he will have to put it on. Lying awake in bed without the garment makes him feel more naked than standing in front of a mirror with all his clothes off — it is odd, when he can’t sense the scratchy edge on his cheek. He sits on the mattress, gathering strength to put his feet on the floor that has been looking suspiciously cold ever since autumn started. He tries to stand up while adjusting the black strips on the back of his head and almost trips on a cover tangled on his ankle, and that’s when he realizes how _fucking dark the place is_.

No coffee, he tells himself as he stumbles down the stairs, because no one should ingest caffeine at two in the morning. Now, _scotch_ — that sounds like an acceptable insomnia drink. There’s a half-bottle _(zero point five zero point five)_ somewhere in the house, and as soon as he finds it he’s going to pour himself a generous glass and sing happy birthday. Top-notch celebration.

Roy ends up with five _‘generous glasses’_ and the couch. He has an unnecessary amount of pillows here, and the cushions feel like butter under his back; too bad he has no blankets, it would be nice to pull one up to his nose. He could probably roll it around himself, like a cocoon — _no cold_ , he thinks wistfully, as he shoves his heels onto the armrest like a child trying to leave dents. If he had blankets, he wouldn’t have to climb the stairs and go back to bed. He could just stay here, frowning at the fireplace and trying to understand why it doesn’t light up when he snaps his fingers.

Looking at the back of his hands, he wonders what went wrong. That must have been something, why would fate leave him alone when everyone else had their halves? Never once he has seen a word on the skin there, just bluish veins and occasional kitchen burns. It’s foolish, but sometimes Roy wants to scratch until he sees blood, maybe he can find something there on his flesh. He can’t be _alone_ , right? This isn’t a possibility.

But perhaps, he muses, the problem here is not the inexistence of a soulmate. That’s so unlike it’s almost impossible — like winning the lottery, except that in this case, it’s more _losing_. Perhaps the issue is not his soulmate, but actually _Roy_. What could one say about Roy Mustang that does not revolve around, dammit, _war crimes?_ Political scandals, bloodshed? _Womanizing?_ He built a reputation around himself and has been wearing it over his head like a crown ever since.

So what would his soulmate say, _Mustang is a good liar_? Considering the things lies have brought down onto him, would that even be a compliment or more like a disdainful curse?

Actually, there’s no way _‘good liar’_ could sound good. Thank god it never appeared on his skin.

Debating between going back to bed or not, Roy falls asleep on the couch. In the morning, with a bitter taste on his tongue from the badly-timed alcohol, he regrets his lack of forethought. His neck aches, his shoulders are so stiff he can barely move. When did he become such a picky sleeper? He clearly recalls not having such issues while staying in the North. Or perhaps the cold just made him numb to most kinds of pain.

Thursday is Hawkeye’s day to pick him up. It makes Roy feel like a toddler, but his Major has a schedule passed between her and Havoc to assure someone of trust is always going to take him back and forth, home and work, work and home. Roy is not quite sure if she is afraid of someone attacking him on his way there, or if she just can’t trust him to drive safely — he wouldn't admit it out loud, but both are equally deadly.

She knocks five minutes earlier like she always does and Roy is thankfully dressed; however, his mind is still only half-way ready and Riza gives him the slightest of frowns when he almost trips at the doorway. Their pleasantries are exchanged with all the professionalism he can muster, and when they lock themselves inside of the car she turns to him with a blank expression.

“Major, don’t—”

“Happy birthday,” she cuts him off, lips curling slightly upwards, “sir.”

He snorts a dry laugh and looks away. _Next year it’ll be you,_ he remembers vindictively, as Riza drives them to headquarters with the shadow of a smile on her face.

Although in the office he still has some respect — _one glare_ , nobody says a thing — he doubts it will be for long. Roy’s long accustomed to unwanted commentaries, but for today he just wished he could tune out all the noise and go lay on the couch again. He feels… _odd_. Not that he hasn’t felt odd before, but there’s something entirely bizarre of realizing he has already lived a good fraction of the number of years he is supposed to live.

In more precise words, he feels old. Gross.

He presses a knuckle to his left temple. There is a pulse there, or perhaps the beginning of a headache, and he puts even more pressure on the spot. The words on the paper in front of him make no sense, he tries to add them together _(subject verb object dependent clause)_ but the cluster of them keeps getting lost somewhere, as if he can only focus on the shape each dark-inked letter creates above the white. He mouths the word _‘reassigned’_ and what the fuck does that mean again?

Thankfully, his schedule is clear of meetings for today; there is one tomorrow but since it’s with a lower-ranking officer, Hawkeye could probably get rid of it for him? Not that he is brave enough to ask.

A knock on the door interrupts his internal debate, and Roy almost lets out a relieved breath.

Nowadays Edward Elric announces his arrival, but still doesn’t wait for permission to come in. Somehow, the action seems even more insubordinate than the obnoxious door-banging he did as a teenager, almost as if he does it out of spite. _See, I’m polite now, so I guess you can’t complain anymore, Colonel Bastard._ Roy can almost hear the impervious snort.

Another thing Fullmetal has changed after his otherworldly stay is his clothing choice. As far as Roy knows, the muted browns are only discarded for the blue military uniform — which still catches Rog off guard. His mental image of Edward has always been _vibrant_ and, although it is certainly a good sign that he turned soberer as he grew, the lack of red and shiny leather feels _unknown_.

But it is _good_ — Edward on his own, golden and contradicting graceful, is already attention-catching enough. Any more and it would be too much.

Edward Elric smiles devilishly at him, which is unusual for a soldier and usual for Ed. “Slacking off again, old man? Hawkeye is only a few steps away, you shouldn’t trust your luck that much.”

With his elbows on the tabletop, Roy rests his chin over his crossed fingers, smirking all throughout the whole movement. Fullmetal is— _refreshing_ , at least. Roy could use many other words, ranging from the lowest insults to the most endearing terms, but he tries to not think about those much. At this point, he probably shouldn’t go around complimenting people, especially those who have so many reasons to be complimented.

 _Old._ He almost flinches.

“And neither should you, Fullmetal,” he mockingly warns, “if you are here, making up such perilous allegations, it certainly means you have an awful lot of free time and I should put you to good use.”

Ed lets out a dry laugh.

“Free time?! Even if I did have any free time I wouldn’t spend it with a bastard like you.”

 _Ouch_. Roy knows it was not meant to hurt and it really doesn’t. It’s just a small sting, like a needle poking the inside of his elbow — _ouch_ , and it’s over, brushed aside with unsurprising ease. He tilts his head to the side and broadens the teasing smile.

“I happen to know many who would disagree with you on that.”

“Sure, but I’m not one of them.”

“Touché,” Roy shrugs, “but your insistent denial inevitably raises some suspicions.”

The blush spreading over Fullmetal’s cheeks might be of annoyance, but still ridiculously endearing.

“Shut _up_.”

Roy does, for the sake of savoring his small victory. Edward pulls a file from what seems to be the thin air — _that_ , or Roy has been too occupied observing the line of Ed’s jaw to notice whatever he might be holding in his hands. Which by the way he is noticing now. His _hands_ — and throws it over the desk, adding more papers to the already overflowing stack and making Roy wince internally. Scowling, Ed crosses his arms and looks at the raven-haired man from where he stands.

“This was you.”

And Roy has no idea what he is talking about.

Tentatively, he pries the folder open and reads a few scattered words — he can barely concentrate, and with Fullmetal’s heavy gaze on him, his brain is all over the place. _Tringham_ and _organic matter_ and _research space_ and some disjointed syllables.

“I see you took the day to accuse me without any solid proof.”

“ _Mustang_ ,” he growls, “this ain’t an accusation, I _know_ it was you working behind the curtains like you always do. I told you he needed money less than a month ago.”

Roy’s eyes flicker away from his and that is probably enough to give him away. He has some fault indeed, but if Edward thinks he did anything more than pull a few strings, he is very mistaken. Russell Tringham has his own impressive abilities and curriculum, all Roy had to do was give him a spot to show off. He opens his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘work’, but I suppose you caught me this time.”

“You need to stop—”

“I didn’t do it because of you.” Which is true. Eighty percent true at least, and for a politician that is exponential honesty. “There are many other things I could do to fall on your good graces, Fullmetal, and giving a job to a man you so emphatically despise surely isn’t one of them.”

Edward squints and Roy’s confidence is back where it belongs, so his smile turns even more malicious. “Unless, of course, this happens to be another case of you displaying your affections rather aggressively.”

He can see the traces of the familiar anger heating the blond alchemist, but at some point along the back and forth between worlds, Ed seems to have learned to not fall for his traps — at least some of them, Roy still liked to think he was a master at pushing Edward’s buttons. 

“Fuck you,” he says, like no soldier would ever be able to, “and why _the fuck_ would you need someone like _Russel Tringham_ working in the military, uh?”

“Oh, I don’t need him, specifically, he just happened to be there.”

 _Lie._ If the man had not applied for State Alchemist Roy would have done whatever it was necessary to have _him_. No other botanist would catch Ed’s attention and wasn’t that the other twenty percent of his reasoning? Roy leans back against the chair, crossing his legs and preparing himself for a bit of self-exposure.

“The previous alchemist had his hands dirty with… let’s just say it was something other than soil,” he explains, “Botanical alchemy is not a widely studied field but Mr.Tringham has interests aligned with those of the military. All that took was a little shove, and anyone could see that he was a much better alternative.”

Edward stares at him — an intense, distrusting stare; the one reserved for when he knows Roy is flourishing stories, pulling him away from the true meaning of his actions. Roy, who has clearly lost the fear of death after being the at the receiving end of _Hawkeye’s_ stares, doesn’t even flinch. Surprisingly, Fullmetal decides to not press the topic any further.

“Whatever,” Ed groans, “I guess you know what to do with even the fucking smallest pieces of information.”

“Obviously.”

“If you weren’t such a sly bastard,” he says as he turns back and walks to the door, “I would say you’re pretty smart.”

_Oh._

Before Ed can slam the door shut, he looks over his shoulder with an uncharacteristic smile. “And by the way, happy birthday.”

The backs of Roy’s hands are burning so hot he barely registers the blond’s obnoxious exiting. He knows those will be empty, oh he swears he _knows_ , but not even the most logical and clear argument could stop from ripping his gloves off as soon as Edward leaves the room.

His skin is so clean he wants to tear it with his nails.

  
  
  


Throughout the whole day, Havoc keeps subtly trying to convince Roy to go to a bar with them after work. It has the potential to be touching but Havoc needs to work a lot on manipulative skills — he simply keeps mentioning drinks and women to Breda, trying to get Roy to join them in the conversation — and the situation is only laughable. At some point, Roy does consider tapping him on the shoulder and saying that, _yes,_ Roy can put one round on his tab and all this scene is not really necessary. Precisely because Hawkeye wants to go, but she will only if he goes too, and Roy supposes he needs to be the good friend from time to time.

By lunchtime, Edward agrees to join them and Roy’s mood improves a little bit.

He tells himself that he should stop indulging hopes that are nothing but— well, _hopes_. Roy likes to think he has some self-control left around Ed as to not let scraps of affection tear an action out of him — in other words, he is terribly afraid of confessing, or thinking that Ed likes him enough that he can say more than he should and get away with it. Which is unlike, and he is aware of that. But feelings can cloud even the most righteous reasoning, and Ed has the awful habit of making Roy believe he can _do things_.

Alongside with surreal infatuations walks _shame_. He has been feeling it ever since his heart decided to do a tap dance while he was looking at Edward, and the timing couldn’t be more off — Ed was young, and _Roy_ was embarrassed at his youngness, and since then he has been trying to find an excuse for it. Maybe if they were fated, he could get away with wanting to monopolize Edward’s attention whenever they are both in the same room.

But of course, this is a petty dream. Roy is somewhat arrogant, yes, but he wouldn’t think so highly of himself to believe the two of them could be soulmates. Edward deserves much better. Roy is the fraction of a fraction and he is… whole. Smart, beautiful, fierce, trustworthy. Ed needs another _one_ so they can form _two_ and be harmonic. If Fate is really out there playing matchmaker, it wouldn’t be so cruel as to put somebody like that with _Roy_ , for God’s sake.

And yet, he wishes. A frail character, really.

In the end, who can judge him? Maes hadn’t, even if Edward had been embarrassingly teenagery back then — and Roy is grateful for his, _what_ , understanding? Compassion? Mercy? 

The truth is, anyone in their right mind would admit both the Elrics are blindingly attractive. Alphonse is everything one could ask for: good-looking, polite, charming, with intelligence beyond most minds — and Roy has seen Ed complaining before, with thinly veiled pride, that out of them, Alphonse is the one people would gladly spend their lives with. Edward, however, has a different type of lure to him. Alphonse is approachable, and Edward is _pulling_. People are dragged to him like elements to Fluorine, and just like that they are stuck, happily sharing their electrons with that unimaginable force.

And Roy, like a small Hydrogen, orbits him through and through. What a shame all they form together is corrosive destruction.

Roy dedicates what’s left of his attention span to the last documents of the day, feeling that usual laziness striking. _Stay at home_ , it says; then, with a jolt of electricity, _Ed is coming_. With the final signature, he lets out a loud sigh and stretches. Happy birthday!

There is a small commotion behind the door, and as Roy leaves the inner office he sees Breda and Falman trying to organize who will drive who and Havoc complaining about their destination. Riza looks professional even with her jacket unbuttoned, which is not that impressive anymore, and Kain Fuery seems more interested in his wristwatch than the discussion taking place right beside him. When his eyes find Edward, the blond shoots a warm grin that breaks Roy’s brain a little bit more.

“Here comes the birthday boy!” Ed shouts.

They let out some loud greetings that Roy is a bit too glad to receive and he smiles at all of them, his cheek brushing against the edge of the eye patch and probably making it move ridiculously. He wants— _to hide_ , or something alike, but at the same time bask in their cheerfulness.

With everything settled, Roy ends up in the most empty of the cars and he almost gives up the comfort of the passenger seat to sit next to Edward in the back. Kain rides there instead, and Riza drives because Roy was a disaster driver even with two perfectly functional eyes. The bar — probably Breda’s picking — is on a loud street’s corner, vibrating with happy clients and partially acceptable music.

Inside, the noise of the other patrons makes him feel a bit more optimistic — all these people are joyful, so he could be too, right? His heart clenches a bit when Edward chooses to sit next to him, and he has to resist the sudden urge to put his hands on the arms resting crossed over the table top. Breda orders beers and Kain's timid suggestion for onion rings is taken very positively by everyone. With those settled, the conversation picks up ranging from cursing paperwork to _did I tell you about that time a man tried to hit on Hawkeye_ , and Roy is truly grateful. If there’s one thing he is good at, is pointless chatter. But when he has these people around him, it feels— _not pointless_ , because they are his friends, aren’t they?

Even Edward, who seems to scowl at anything he deems to be moving for too long, seems genuinely invested. It gives Roy an odd sense of satisfaction, to know he feels comfortable around them — or _him_ , but maybe that’s reading too much into it. Ed, throwing his head to the side with a toothy grin. Ed, telling stories of his own that sound way more impressive to his peers than to himself. Ed, scoffing at Havoc’s stupid ex-girlfriends. Ed, and Roy wonders at which moment exactly he became the center of the universe.

When they talk, the two of them, it feels like one of the cheesy moments in novels where everything halts. Under Ed’s inhuman focus, Roy feels like he matters — this person, Edward Elric, truly believes that Roy is is more than a bunch of cells with low levels of serotonin. They argue, it has always been their favorite pastime, and Ed looks about to throw him across the room for disagreeing with him about some stupid symbol and Roy is overwhelmed with a delicious feeling of completion.

“God, Fullmetal, I’m just teasing you,” he says, between a soft laugh, “you don’t need to fight this hard, I already think you are brilliant.”

However, he doesn’t get the expected reaction — a snarky remark or well-worded fuck off; instead, the blood freezes, eyes widening as color quickly leaves his features. It resembles fear, and Roy is frantically reviewing their entire conversation because Ed is not one to crumble with simple rhetoric. Then, Roy makes the mistake of averting the blond’s eyes, and he looks down and—

Ed jumps out of his seat and runs for the door.

The second he is out, Riza turns to him. “What did you say?”

He should be offended by her readiness to point him as the wrongdoer, but his brain is still dwelling on the fact that Edward just _ran away_ after Roy said something that… really couldn’t be taken as flirty, right? Or could it? Ed is brilliant — it wasn’t a compliment or flattery, it was just stating facts. And even if could, there have been moments when their interactions have sounded way less platonic.

“Nothing!” He defensively blurts out. “We were just— it was a heated discussion but I didn’t— I don’t know what happened!”

All eyes fall on him, and Roy feels the breath being punched out of him. He fucked up, and he doesn’t know _why_ , and it’s only after Riza’s glare that he takes initiative to find out. Roy gets up, crosses the bar in hurried steps, and opens the door to the cold breeze of the night.

Unexpectedly, he finds Ed hidden in an alley just around the corner. He is pacing back and forth, like a lion locked inside of a cage. For a few seconds, Roy observes from the distance, scared of the beast he could set free with an inappropriate choice of words. “Fullmetal?”

The blond startles, and his first reflex is to snap at Roy. “Get the fuck away from me.”

This — anger, volatility — _this_ is what Roy knows. He can’t understand Ed, _deer-in-the-headlights-Ed_ , with his face pale and shoulders slumped. But just because he _knows_ , it doesn’t mean that he _likes_.

“No,” he says, “what happen—”

“Don’t you _dare_ to pretend to care!”

“I do!” Roy _does_ — more than he should. They are friends, or at least Roy thinks so and he would be immensely glad if Ed could think that too. “But I can’t apologize if you don’t tell me what I did to—”

”Fuck you,” he barks, “you’re so full of shit, all the fucking time, I don’t even get why we— _fuck you!_ ”

“I never meant to offend you!”

“ _Offend me?!_ ” Ed stares at him with bloodshot eyes, frowning as if he is experiencing some kind of physical pain. Roy is desperate to reach out, pull him closer and run his hands up and down his back, but there are so many boundaries. Ed wouldn’t let him. “You don’t need to offend me to screw with my head, and you know that very well.”

Roy feels the very first sparks of anger heating his chest and he snarls. “Why are you always so keen on accusing me? I don’t have a single clue what you’re talking about!”

“Stop _acting!_ ”

“I am _not!_ ” Roy shouts back. “You go around saying that you are not a kid anymore, yet when someone tries to talk to you, you throw a—”

“Of course! I’m the child here, and not the grown ass man who can’t even show some respect for other people’s feelings!” Edward raises his hands in mocked defeat, “I wish we could be at least friends, but you have to go a pull a stunt like that in front of _everyone—!_ ”

“What stunt?! I was just _talking_ to you, we’ve done that countless times before! _What are you talking about?!_ ”

“You really don’t know?”

His voice is like a whisper, weak and frail and once again leaves Roy bereft. Edward blinks, looks down and then back at him, breath hitching and coming out in a shaky puff. Then he sighs, shaking his head and smiling, relieved of a burden that Roy has never known he was carrying.

“Your really don’t know.”

“Fullmetal, _talk_ to me, so I can understand.”

“It’s okay,” he says and sounds more truthful than it should, “I’m sorry for this, sorry for acting like a fucking crybaby in the middle of your birthday celebration.”

“It’s alright, but please—”

Ed lets out a dry laugh. “It’s really not, but of course you’d say it is.”

“Fullmetal…”

“I think I’m gonna head home for tonight,” he whispers. They are close enough for Roy to see the wetness on the corners of his eyes. “It was nice though, being here with you and everyone.”

“Are you sure you can’t any longer?” _Please stay,_ Roy wants to say, but he already reached his daily quota of saying things out of impulse today.

Edward shakes his head and then looks away. He doesn’t move, so neither does Roy and they stand silently in the middle of an alley in Central. There is something surrounding them, that usual tension, but it doesn’t burn; it feels more like ashes in a fireplace, warm but useless, and Roy really wishes he could blow it away.

Arms wrap around his shoulders suddenly, clumsy and awkward. Roy’s heart can probably be heard from miles away, and his brain-body coordination must be severely damaged. He is so shocked he can’t hug back. Ed lets go of him too quickly though, taking many steps back as if Roy had burnt him, and shoves his hands inside his pockets. “Happy birthday, bastard.”

Roy stupidly stares at his back as he leaves.

He frowns, trying to make sense of what just happened. Edward is such an outspoken person, but he has this strange dichotomy to him — he makes a lot of sense and is very predictable, but at the same time he makes little sense and is not predictable at all. He is pretty much like a bomb; you can grasp the concept (it _blows up_ ) but the practicalities are a bit confusing if you don’t have a clear explanation ( _when_ and _how _).__

____

____

Roy’s right hand feels weird. The back tingles, as if a tiny needle is running against it; not really painful, but definitely annoying. It itches and it doesn’t stop even when he scratches. Must be an insect, he curses and peels his glove off, turning it inside out so he can pat the tiny beast away. He glimpses something on his skin and freezes.

 _No,_ he thinks, even as he read and rereads the word temporarily tattooed to his skin in a scribble.

_b a s t a r d_

For a few seconds, his cognitive functioning is interrupted. The world around him is oddly dense and fluid, like water surrounding him from all sides but without enough strength to make him move an inch. He takes a deep breath, and his brain slightly acknowledges that, yes, he is a physical being and he has lungs and he is not going to drown in the middle of an alley and that he really _needs_ to talk to Ed. _Now_ , his brain says, and Roy wholeheartedly agrees.

He has half a mind to go back inside and shove some money into Riza’s hands, then he leaves under concerned exclamations that he is too distracted to answer in a polysyllabic manner. Right now, the only thing he can think of is getting to Ed _(Ed Ed Ed)_ and doing his best to—

Running down the street, Roy feels without brakes. He can do this, Edward has never been so close to him before even if it is not physically; this once, this once, this once it is going to be _them_ , and Roy begs all the gods he can remember that he will be able to hold the self-doubt at bay for just _this once_. So what if Ed hid it from him? So what if he obviously had no intentions to tell him now? Surely he has plans to do it one day, doesn’t he? Roy needs a chance, _deserves_ a chance to—

 _Edward hates him_. It must sound like punishment to have somebody like Roy as a soulmate, and he has all the rights to deny it and hide it and play tug of war with Fate for as long as he wants. Roy understands now, oh he does! A soulmate is not a bracket, but a liability. The universe gives him a half, but humans are empowered with their own choices and feelings and judgments and— in the end, free-will supersedes all sorts of cosmic acquaintances. Roy is entitled to a soulmate, not _love_ — if that is what he wants, he needs to _convince_ them, _convince Ed_ he should stay.

And Edward is, by all means, convinced that he shouldn’t.

But Roy holds the power to change that right here in his hands.

When he sees Ed’s back — _broad, blue jacket, ponytail instead of braid_ , oh god, did Roy just shiver? — he almost turns away. His steps turn significantly slower with the heavy feeling in his gut, like an anvil attached with a rope to his waist, forcing him to stop and just sit down here on the sidewalk. He won’t be able to keep walking like this, and the distance between them seems to stretch for kilometers, so he does the only thing that will inevitably catch the blonds attention before _giving up_ becomes the only option:

“Edward!”

In a whip of golden hair, the man turns to him with a wary frown on his face. Roy realizes with an impending sense of doom that now there is no way out of this, not anymore — he ran all the way here and screamed Ed’s name in the middle of a street, there is no way the blond could let him off the hook. His feet move on their own accord, forcing Roy through each step even although his mind keeps chanting _stop turn back this is a trap trap trap_ — Ed is walking in his direction too and they end up meeting way faster than Roy would like. He tilts his head to the side, a single string of blond poking his cheek, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question Roy has no idea how to answer.

He doesn’t seem to have been crying, but that is nothing close to a reassurance; in fact, this is the most calm he has seen Edward in quite a while, and that says enough in Roy’s opinion. Hence, the growing anxiety over their mutual silence leaves Roy with an intense need to apologize. _Well, hello, good evening, I’m really sorry there is this invisible rope tying us together even though neither of us had been planning it_ , or something along those lines.

“Full— _Edward_ , I—”

Roy cannot finish a sentence he couldn’t even come up with. He lays his hand in front of him so Ed can read the odd term of endearment on the back.

With a taste of guilt on his tongue, he must admit he expected more of Edward — lashing out, burning embarrassment, wry laughter, _more_ — but after the entirety of this night, he should already have realized predicting Ed is way harder than it seems. The blond’s eyes widen for a nanosecond, then he looks more sad than surprised. His expression hits Roy like a punch to the guts, he barely stops himself from wincing and doubling over, but there are many things Roy regrets more than being honest with both of them.

Edward extends his hand as well, their fingers brushing for a moment before Roy has time to read the lone word on the flesh:

_b r i l l i a n t_

Roy can’t bring himself to stop looking.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

It’s a strange picture, the one they make. Their hands contrast on size and tan and the nature of what is written on their skin. Conflicting — his word is more of a curse than a loving language, yet it fills Roy with a warmth that bubbles from his chest all the way up to his lips and forms a smile. He is not happy, not _yet_ , but it has been a long time since he has been this close to it.

“I’m sorry I’m compelling you to tell me now.”

They don’t move, which makes their whole scene even more pathetic. Edward snorts. “You’re not _compelling_ anyone, idiot.”

Unfortunately, the word _idiot_ does not appears besides _bastard_ — at the same time, Roy is objectively grateful for it.

“I’m kinda glad actually,” Ed shrugs, “I really thought you knew all along, but just… didn’t want me.”

Roy's breath hitches in surprise and he stands confused for a few seconds before lacing their fingers together with an unexpected amount of strength. “That’s— no, _I_ am the one who should be saying that, Edward. You are—”

“Please, don’t…”

“—so much more than I could ever deserve. Beautiful, clever, strong, loyal, diligent, passionate…”

The words are being drawn over the skin of Ed’s hand and Roy observes mesmerized as the lines twist and curve. An intense blush spreads over the blond’s cheeks.

“ _God_ , you’re a fuckin’ sap,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “quit your self-deprecating bullshit already.”

“I’m not self-deprecating...”

“You just said I’m more than you deserve!” Ed takes a step closer, never letting go of the raven-haired man. “Don’t say that, you know it’s not true, I’m— you’re idealizing me. You’re just…”

He waves his automail in a vague gesture that has Roy frowning in confusion. Sighing, he arches a brow at Roy and bites his lip anxiously.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?”

“I don’t understand what you—”

“Yes, you are. Fuck you, honestly.” Edward pulls their hands, angling them so Roy can see the back of his own, and his cheeks redden even more. “Okay, asshole, so the truth is I think you’re...

_s m a r t_

_p e r s i s t e n t_

_h a n d s o m e_

_c o n s i d e r a t e_

_r e l i a b l e_

“...a good person. You’re way more than I could ask for, and I know it must suck to be stuck with _me_ , I’m not really—”

Roy is emotionally incapable of letting him finish, so he squeezes Ed’s fingers and blurts out in a sudden wave of bravery:

“I have been in love with you for years now.”

Admitting it takes a weight off his shoulders he hasn’t known he had been carrying — what felt like a silent crime he could only confess to the four walls of his bedroom, is now just a cluster of words floating between them like soap bubbles. He is fully aware of the power he has surrendered to the man in front of him, and his insides are fizzling with both fear and a pleasant warmth he can’t recall feeling before.

“God, Mustang,” he breathes out, “how the hell do you always know what to say?”

Edward lunges forward, detangling his fingers from Roy’s and tugging him down by the lapels. Truth is, Roy has imagined it so many times, dreamed about it so many times, that this kiss doesn’t feel like a first — and that is okay, more than okay actually. It fills him with an indescribable sense of belonging. They match like this, with Ed’s hands to the sides of his neck — cold and warm, _cold and warm_ — and Roy’s curling around his waist, feeling the precious heat seeping through the wool of his jacket.

It’s a slow kiss, shorter than anyone would have wished it to be, and when Ed pulls away, it feels like his soul is being dragged out of his body alongside, his lone electron gravitating towards the man. In a sudden spur of faith, he understands he doesn’t mind sharing it. Even if it burns him, corrodes him, blinds him, over and over again — Edward is Fluorine and Roy is a mere molecule of Hydrogen, it was bound to happen since the beginning. Their compound is destructive in the best scenario, and Roy doesn’t want to think about what it could do to him in the worst. Especially because now it seems it couldn’t be any better.

The blond doesn’t slip out of his grasp, however; he tilts his head to the side rests his cheek on Roy’s shoulder, breath running slow and warm over the skin of his neck. Roy’s arms slide around Ed’s waist, and it’s with a type of satisfaction that would certainly doom him that Roy realizes Edward is small enough to fit neatly between the tight circle. Sighing, he presses the side of his face to the silky strands of hair and basks in the relief — of being held instead of pushed away, of being hugged in a way he hasn’t been for years now.

“This is…” Ed starts, but never finishes.

And Roy gets the feeling even if he too doesn’t know the right word.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, this fic took me so long! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> To the anon who asked me for a RoyEd "meet ugly" drabble, I'm sorry for taking so long! I'm working on it from now on.
> 
>  
> 
> [links](https://aluinihi.carrd.co/)


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